


if it's not rough it isn't fun

by 26miledrive



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:37:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/26miledrive/pseuds/26miledrive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"This has been percolating for about a year, these two players, Komisarek and Lucic...it's a madhouse, here."  -- Jack Edwards, November 13, 2008</p>
            </blockquote>





	if it's not rough it isn't fun

**Author's Note:**

> So, in 2008, [this happened](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gjZbNtzsQFY). And then obviously, this happened right afterwards.

**if it's not rough it isn't fun**

There's no way in hell he's leaving this building without punching Milan Lucic in the face. 

One might argue that he had his chance, earlier, out on the ice -- and if one did that, Mike would punch _them_ in the fucking face, too. Every time he thinks about Lucic taunting the bench like that, that _smirk_ he threw as he skated towards the penalty box -- 

\-- he has to stop before he starts breaking things in the locker room. Like hockey sticks. Or a rookie. 

And that would be a shame, because what he really wants to fuck up is a _Bruin_. 

Mike storms out with a terse, "Meet you at the bus," aimed in the general direction of his teammates, slamming the door hard enough to make it shake on its hinges. 

No one tries to stop him. 

* * *   
"Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me." Lucic laughs when Mike finds him on his way out of the Garden. "What, you didn't get enough before?" 

Laughter is not exactly the reaction Mike was either expecting or _wanting_ , but at this point it's just more fuel on the fire of his rage, or some other such thing that sounds like a _Rage Against the Machine_ song lyric. "It was one fight, Lucic. One." 

"That you lost, tough guy. As usual. When are you going to learn to stop doing that, huh, Komisarek?" Lucic reaches out like he's going to punch Mike on the shoulder. Mike flinches, because _what the actual hell_ , and Lucic laughs again, edged and a little meaner than before. "Made you flinch." 

That's when Mike punches him in the mouth. And goddamn, does it ever feel good.

* * *  
"I can't believe you did that." Lucic is no longer laughing, he's _glaring_ , and that's a lot better. He's also talking around a bag of ice he's pressing to his mouth, bloody and swollen from Mike's hit, and it's comical in a way that is _also_ really satisfying. 

"Everyone's going to think you got that bloody lip on the ice, from me." Mike wiggles his fingers. His hand hurts. "Is your face made out of brick, along with the rest of your stupid head?" 

"Fuck you." Lucic puts the bag of ice down. "That was totally fucking unnecessary. You wanted that goddamn fight, Komisarek." 

"Oh, and the taunting wasn't unnecessary?"

"No, it's a goddamn Habs-Bruins game. Jesus, even Krejci was running his mouth off at you guys. You suck and we tell you about it." Lucic presses the bag back to his mouth. "Wf hnd jstrs." 

"What?"

"I said, _with hand gestures_. Jesus, Mike, why didn't you throw this hit on the ice, huh?" Lucic sucks on his lip, scowling. "It would have looked way more badass." 

"I was too mad. And playing hockey. Just shut up." Mike sits down next to him, takes the bag away and leans in and kisses him, because he can't help himself from fighting Lucic, can't help himself from doing this, either. 

"Owww--mmm." Predictably, Lucic complains for two seconds and then kisses back, presses forward unrelentingly like he always does, six-foot-four inches of aggression and temper all up in Mike's space. "Got you all hot, didn't it." 

"Why do you think I wanted to fight you?" Mike grabs his hair, pulls on it sharply and smiles at the noise Lucic makes, a low growl and a whine -- that's so Lucic, it could be sold in a bottle with his goddamn name on it. "Come on. We don't have a lot of time. Put out or let me hit you in the mouth some more, Milan. I like both of those things a lot. But make up your mind, I have to get back on the bus at some point." 

"Got another game to lose, huh? Fuck -- stop smacking me, you fucking douchebag, who _does_ that?" Lucic shifts and straddles Mike on the bench, pushing him back against the wall of lockers. "Leave it to a Hab to bitchslap a guy on his swollen mouth." 

"Leave it to a Bruin to whine about it." 

Lucic kisses him again, copper-sweet from the blood on his mouth. "You started this hit-me-cause-you-want-me thing, Komisarek, I'm just playing along." 

"I didn't like you. I just wanted to shove my cock in your mouth and make you be quiet. Speaking of ---" Mike smiles briefly against Lucic's mouth, hands running up and down his back once before settling on his shoulders and pushing him down, hard. "--shut the fuck up and get on your knees." 

The thing about Lucic that Mike likes is that he's a pretty agreeable guy, once you get him off the ice and get that stupid spoked _B_ off of his chest -- it's like it takes the chip right off with it, amazing! -- and Lucic goes to his knees and starts working on Mike's belt without hesitating. He doesn't shut up, though that's to be expected. "What'd you tell your teammates?" 

"That we get off on beating the shit out of each other on the ice, and you like me to rough you up when we're done and then suck my cock. Why?"

"Mike." Lucic looks up, and his grin in combination with his bloody mouth is both completely arousing and totally infuriating at the same time. "You shouldn't lie to your teammates." He leans forward and bites Mike on the inside of his thigh, sharp enough to bruise even through his dress pants. "You never beat the shit out of me on the ice. You've got that weird-ass kinky thing where you like getting hurt in front of hostile Boston fans." 

That's a lot cooler than the _I couldn't manage to land a punch on you_ truth of the matter, actually. He's going to have to remember that one. "Just like you want to be put in your place by a Hab in your locker room, huh?"

"That's a lot less kinky, dude. And there's nobody in here. The whole world can't see my shame like they did with you, eh?" 

"Boston's not the whole world. And no one gives a fuck about your goon squad of a team." Mike gets a hand on himself and tightens his fingers in Lucic's hair, pulling him closer and smacking him on the side of his face with his cock, because he can. "Open up, sweetheart." 

"Make me." Lucic glances up at him challengingly, mouth firmly closed and still bleeding. 

Mike rolls his eyes and smacks him again, with his hand this time. "Open your goddamn mouth." 

Lucic inhales sharply, eyes flashing hot and Mike can see some of that residual anger from their fight in there somewhere, not directed at him as much as the _idea_ of him, the rival on home ice who won't stop pushing and won't leave him alone. 

Mike feels that slow burn again, not as rageful as it was when there were thousands of people screaming and a game on the line, but enough to make him hit Lucic harder than he probably should. "Open. Your. Mouth." 

The moan he gets out of Lucic for that is good enough for Mike -- he pulls on Lucic's hair again and thrusts in hard, choking him immediately, and he likes that sound as much as Lucic probably liked all that cheering earlier. "That's it. Choke on it, you fucking bitch, you're such a good goddamn cocksucker, you know that? Does your team know that? I bet they do." 

Lucic pulls off to catch his breath, and to fight the tight grip in his hair because Mike knows by now that he likes that. "Who do you think I am? Ryan Kesler?" 

That surprises a laugh out of Mike, lust-roughened but genuine. "Shhh. I was getting into that, stop making me laugh. And no, I do not think you're Ryan fucking Kesler." Mike's grin is sudden and bright. "He's a few inches shorter than you are." 

"I will bite you, fucker." Lucic ducks his head, takes Mike's cock in his mouth and stares at him -- then hums around his cock and drums his fingers on Mike's thigh in a _well?_ sort of gesture, like he's bored or impatient. 

Mike obliges him, starts fucking his mouth again, and as the tension mounts he's rougher and rougher, fucking Lucic's mouth so hard his hips are coming up off the bench, just enough aware of the choking noises Lucic is making to drive him fucking crazy. It doesn't take long, but it never does -- there's too much built up between them by the time they do this, a hockey fight is the best kind of foreplay there is. 

Right before he comes, he pulls out and yanks Lucic's head back one more time by the hair, eyes narrowed into slits and a roar as loud as the crowd in his ears. "Look at me. _Look at me._ " He jacks himself a few times and then comes on Lucic's face, moaning loudly. 

The roar is so loud he can't hear anything else, and for a moment the white behind his eyes is as bright as center ice under the spotlights. 

When he opens his eyes, drowsy and panting to catch his breath, sprawled back against the wall, it's to see Lucic breathing hard and wiping at his face with the back of his hand, giving Mike a look he can't explain but really, really likes.

He looks nothing like he did an hour or so ago, all triumph-flushed and anger-bright eyes, taking Mike down on the ice just like his team did on the scoreboard. And maybe that's why Mike likes this so much; it's an equalizer of sorts, helps him get back whatever it was Lucic took from him out there. 

Or maybe Mike just likes how Lucic looks on his knees, how good he is at sucking cock, and how hot it is to come on his face. 

It's probably that. 

He leans down, slowly, takes his time and kisses Lucic, hand settling at the back of his neck, smiles when he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket. "I gotta go, princess. Bus is waiting." 

Lucic bites his lip in response, hard, and then pulls away. "Typical Hab. Get me excited about something, and then totally fucking fail to deliver. Now I know how your fans feel, wow." 

"We have -- "

" --if you say _twenty-four Stanley Cups_ I am going to fucking punch you. Again." 

Mike leans back to fix his pants, grinning messily at Lucic. "I was going to say we have _another game coming up_ , shhh, listen for once in your life. Maybe if you're lucky, I'll show you my apartment after we kick your ass." He and Lucic both get to their feet, and Mike leans in and kisses him, cheerful and a lot more relaxed. "Have fun driving home with that hard-on, Lucic. See you next week. When we win, maybe I'll get you off." 

"Guess I'm going to suffer forever, then. Hey, now I know how your _team_ feels, too." 

Mike shakes his head, hiding his grin, and flips Lucic off as he walks out of the door and heads towards the bus. He's already looking forward to next week.

Goddamn best rivalry in hockey, indeed.


End file.
